Free Robert B. Parker by Love, Glory Page B

Jennifer
,
    There is very little room in the corporate world for dignity. I saw the second- or third-ranking guy in a major corporation sweating with fear over a minor mistake because the president was scolding him. I suppose because he’s making a lot of money he then has a lot to lose by getting fired and so has more reason to be scared than I do. But it seemed more like he was simply scared that the boss was mad, the way a timid little kid is in elementary school, afraid of the teacher getting mad, not of what the teacher will do. I have a lot of trouble caring about the corporate goals … which are, after all, to make money for the stockholders. Probably a fine ambition, but I don’t really give a shit about the stockholders, and in fact, in my heart, I kind of want the corporation to lose
.
    I love you

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    I was working on a promotional page in
Pulse
. The headline on my promotional page read, “1955 Is a $ales $ellabration = $ell Like $ixty in ’55.” The artwork was an oversized insurance agent with a briefcase under his arm, driving a tiny car at a high speed along a winding road made of dollar bills. At the end of the road was a Miami Beach moorish-castle hotel labeled 1955 SALES CONFERENCE: MIAMI . While I was admiring this, Walt Waters came to my desk, putting on his suit jacket as he walked, and asked me to go into Bill Reardon’s office. Reardon was the Director comma Advertising, Public Relations, and Sales Promotion. His office was twice as large as Walt’s (exactly—I had measured them both one night when I worked late and no one was around), and the partition walls were twelve inches higher. In the safety of his office Bill had his coat off and his shirt cuffs turned up. But his tie was still snugged up to his collar and his coat was close. At the first sign of a superior he could whip down the cuffs and slip on the coat.
    Walt and I sat down. Walt’s chair, I noticed, was nearer to Bill’s side of the desk than mine.
    “Boone, we’ve got some problems,” Bill said. He looked at Walt.
    Walt said, “You are a hell of a creative guy, Boone. I mean that, a hell of a creative guy.”
    “But,” Bill said, “you’re not fitting in.”
    I nodded.
    Bill had a page of lined yellow paper on the desk in front of him. He glanced at it. “Last October you went out to Secaucus to do a picture story on the district office out there and showed up wearing neither suit coat nor tie.” He looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
    I nodded.
    He looked at his paper again. “And you ran the picture of the Negroes without clearing it with Walt, or me, or Pat Jones.”
    I nodded. I had a sense where this was going.
    “You refused to work on the United Fund campaign.”
    Nod.
    “And now”—Bill looked up from his list and looked full at me. Mr. District Attorney—“we have the year-end listing of conference qualifiers and there’s a dozen mistakes in middle initials, spelling of last names, district office codes …” He shook his head.
    Walt said, “It’s just not enough to be creative, Boone.”
    “Boone,” Bill Reardon said, “we’re going to have to let you go.”
    I shrugged and stood up.
    “You want to say anything, Boone, in your—ah—defense?” Walt said.
    I shook my head. “Nope,” I said.
    “You’re just going to leave like that?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You’ve got two weeks pay coming, Boone.”
    I pointed my index finger toward the sky and made a circular motion. “Whoopee,” I said.
    Dear Jennifer
,
    Getting fired is more depressing than I thought it would be. I hated the place and had no respect for it, or the people in it, but when they decide they don’t want you there, somehow it makes you feel undesirable, or wanting, valueless, maybe. But, anyway, it’s done. Too bad I didn’t protest about the Negro business, or something dignified, matter of principle, you know? But I got fired for being careless and sloppy in proofreading a list. It’s hard to be